


A Proper Parisian Gentleman

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Series: The 1830s AU [5]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU, Boys In Love, F/M, Gen, M/M, Second Generation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1854 redefines the challenge of remaking men, when a new and clueless student makes his way into Professor Antoine Enjolras' law class as well as the affairs of the Latin Quartier miscreants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the product of a strange headcanon I have concerning the WAMP verse some 20 years down the road. It’s best to read “When Apollo Met Persephone” and “The Benefactress” before proceeding, as this story is a direct consequence of the events of the latter.  
> Plenty of OCs here, mostly the children of the Amis and their friends. I do own them, but alas I do not own Victor Hugo’s characters.

****

_I_

_Summer 1854_

Unlike other young newcomers to Paris, Marcellin de Guilbert did not arrive by diligence, but in his family’s gaudily painted carriage. “Of course the neighbours noticed; that’s one thing that’s never changed about this street,” Justine Lafontaine-Stendhal was heard to say over breakfast the morning after this arrival had made his presence known in her home. “I had hoped that my sister or her husband would accompany him, just to wish him well.”

“That would have been a scene, and we all would have been the worse for it,” her husband Emile said grimly. He shook a wayward lock of ash blond hair out of his face; after all he’d been meaning to have his hair trimmed that morning. “It is better this way, dear. You can see he’s been cooped up too long at home, worse than I was.”

“You’re right about the first, but I will contest you on the second,” Justine replied. In all her thirty-eight years she had seen her share of peculiar and difficult guests; a number even frequented their translating office, but she had seen fewer personalities more in need of pity than her nephew. _‘Perhaps it’s mere homesickness,’_ she told herself by way of consolation even as she heard footsteps racing to the small dining room. Even without looking up she could tell which one of her daughters was up and about. “Good morning Aimee,” she called by way of greeting.

“Good morning Maman, Papa,” the older of the Stendhal girls greeted as she walked over to her usual place. Aimee tossed her dark braids out of her face before smoothing down her yellow morning dress. “Sybil is still upstairs,” she began in her usual high breathless tone. “There is something I want to speak to you about...”

“About your cousin, Marcellin?” Justine asked primly.

Aimee nodded slowly as she reached for a piece of bread from a plate in the middle of the table. “Is he always so peevish in the morning?”

“He has travelled long way,” Emile supplied. “Perhaps he is still tired.”

“We have all been tired but you tell us not to be _rude_!” Sybil’s lower but nonetheless indignant voice came from the dining room entrance. The younger sister practically dashed to her seat and collapsed in the chair. “He actually asked who was going to help him dress, as if he had a valet---“

“He also wondered where the water was, and didn’t know he had to bring it up if he wanted to shave,” Aimee added.

“He’s being so _trying_!” Sybil finished, nearly splattering jam all over her lavender dress. “Must he stay here the whole year?”

“He’s your cousin, the only child of my only sister,” Justine said evenly. “We must be the first persons to offer to take care of him.”

“I don’t see why he can’t stay with Uncle,” Sybil grumbled.

“Because he’s always away in Sweden,” Aimee pointed out. “Marcellin would not last a day alone, managing a big house---“

“Girls!” Justine reprimanded. Much to her relief that single word still had its effect; Aimee stopped and took an interest in her coffee while Sybil looked down. Justine waited for any other comment before looking to Emile, who was trying to keep a straight face. “Perhaps you should have a word with him, maybe bring him out a bit---“ she asked.

“I did so yesterday but it was not easy,” Emile said. “You are his aunt though...”

“His aunt, but he is already a man. He’s already eighteen,” Justine said. “He will be starting in the law school, and that is no mean feat.”

Aimee snorted. “How will he survive the lecture? Professor Enjolras sent out _three_ of his students last term for copying each other’s notes---“

“In any school that would be a problem, not just in the Sorbonne,” Emile pointed out.

“What I mean to say, Papa, is that Cousin Marcellin has always been tutored and has never been in a classroom,” Aimee said. “What is he to do?”

“He passed the bac exam. That qualifies him,” Justine said more seriously. Nevertheless it was clear that she would have to intervene, if only to retain peace in her own household. Throughout breakfast she listened for any sign of their relative coming down to join them, but all she heard were doors opening and shutting, as well as the occasional muttering. At last she pushed aside her plate and headed up the stairs to the winding second floor hallway. “Marcellin?” she called.

“Here I am.” The door to the furthest room opened and out stepped a dark-haired boy who, judging by the smell of perfume that filled the air, had spent the past few minutes fussing about his toilette. He shrugged, as if trying to keep his coat from falling off his slender shoulders. “What do you want with me, Aunt?” he asked.

“Would you like to join us for breakfast?” Justine offered cheerily.

Marcellin looked up, as if he’d been surprised by a thunderclap. “Now?”

“Why, when else?” Justine asked. She took a step towards him. “Are you feeling well?”

The boy nodded quickly. “I am.”

“Then please join us. I guarantee you will love the croissants.”

A slight smile played across Marcellin’s pale, almost sallow face. “Maybe. Thank you.” He paused as if he was suddenly unsure what to say next. “Do you always have breakfast so early?”

“Yes, and even earlier when classes start,” Justine replied. “First year students keep an early schedule at the Sorbonne, especially the law school.”

“I’ll remember that, thank you,” Marcellin practically stammered.

“If you wish, you could join your Uncle Emile today and perhaps acquire your books?”

“Maybe. Thank you for breakfast, Aunt.”

“Marcelin---“ Justine began but the boy was already hurrying down the stairs. She shook her head as she listened to his footsteps grow softer. ‘ _Did you even teach him anything, Cerise?’_ she wondered silently.

It had been twenty years since Justine had chosen to remain in Paris (or was ‘left behind’, according to her more malicious relations). That time had passed busily, but quickly, yet she still had the opportunity to hear of her older sister’s sudden marriage to the former Marquis de Guilbert and the subsequent birth of a single child, little Marcellin. It was an acceptable life, that much Justine knew, but evidently it left much to be desired.

She cringed as she heard a crash from downstairs followed by her own daughters’ shouts of dismay as well as Marcellin’s hasty apology. ‘ _Evidently not,’_ she thought as she went down to see to the source of this newfound commotion.


	2. Chapter 2

****

‘ _Perhaps you could show him around, Maximillien. He’s your age, and you’d get along.’_

It was this very sort of entreaty that always had Maximillien Prouvaire giving in. ‘ _Citizen Stendhal did not have to mention the fact that I’m an only child too,’_ he thought even as he cast a glance over his shoulder at Marcellin, who was blinking owlishly as he looked up and down the street. Whatever the case, it was enough to explain why a simple errand to drop off papers at the Stendhals’ home had now changed the course of the rest of his day. “It’s not a long walk. We don’t have to wait for a fiacre,” he informed his new acquaintance.

Marcellin adjusted the wide brim of his hat. “I had thought you would have a carriage of your own. Your father is a national poet.”

Maximillien’s eyebrows shot up curiously. “What is that to having a carriage then?”

Marcellin opened his mouth as if to make a retort but he suddenly looked down and scuffed his shoes. “So this is how you do things in Paris,” he mumbled at length.

“Only in the tight spaces,” Maximillien said, gesturing to the narrow street they were crossing. ‘ _It is always more crowded here at the end of summer,’_ he told himself as he caught sight of a group of young boys ducking into a bookshop. Being born and raised in the Latin Quartier gave him the opportunity to see students come and go from their lodgings in the environs of the Sorbonne, the Ecole Polytechnique, and other schools. This year was different though; he would be starting his own studies in the conservatory of music. The thought of what the next few days would bring was enough to have him smiling, at least till he saw Marcellin’s brow furrow again. “Are you homesick already?”

Marcellin shrugged. “At least I don’t have to deal with any more tutors.”

“Tutors? For which subjects?”

“All of them.”

Maximillien’s jaw dropped when he realized what Marcellin was trying to say. “So you never attended any of the schools in Orleans?”

“Maman thought....” Marcellin trailed off before giving Maximiliien a cross look. “Why, where did _you_ go to study?”

“The day school near the Odeon. It’s just as good as any other school,” Maximillien replied.

“You didn’t go to boarding school?”

“Nor did you. The best schools are here in Paris anyway, and there’s no point taking another house.”

Marcellin shrugged before looking around, only to end up gaping at the sight of the Odeon theater just across the square. “Why are we here?”

“To greet my parents,” Maximillien replied, motioning for Marcellin to follow him. The Odeon was a second home to him; in fact some of his earliest memories involved hiding in the lofty boxes or peeking out from the wings as his father coached an orchestra, or while his mother helped painters and carpenters set up the elaborate backdrops that only she could imagine. Nowadays he no longer darted about in the shadows, since he was already of that age when appreciation of the art was not only welcome, but expected.

Today both of his parents were seated in one of the theater’s front rows, commenting on some alterations to make to a mock-up of a forest. Maximillien quickly raced over to them. “Sorry I’m late. That errand took longer than I thought.”

“Late?” Jean Prouvaire clarified before checking his watch. “I didn’t know it was afternoon already.”

Azelma Thenardier-Prouvaire giggled as she peered also at the timepiece. “You were enjoying yourself too much, Jehan.” She paused to brush a dust mote out of her dark hair, which she wore in curls. “Maximillien, who’s your new friend?”

Maximillien gently shoved Marcellin forward. “His name is Marcellin de Guilbert. He’s Citizenness Stendhal’s nephew. Marcellin, meet my parents.”

Azelma’s eyes widened as if recognizing something. “Ah yes, your aunt mentioned you would be staying with her family. It’s nice to meet you, Marcellin.”

Jehan held out a hand cordially. “When did you arrive in Paris?”

Marcellin glanced down at the poet’s hand, as if unsure what to do. “Only yesterday.” 

“You couldn’t have chosen a better friend to show you around the quartier,” Jehan, giving his son an approving look. “Where are you boys going?”

“Anywhere but the Sorbonne,” Maximillien replied.

“The Luxembourg is lovely this late in the summer. Maybe you’ll find something interesting to watch at the Place du Pantheon,” Azelma suggested. “You could ask your cousins along.”

‘ _Another thing to change the afternoon entirely,’_ Maximillien thought with undisguised amusement. “I’ll see if they are home then.”

“If they are, then have fun. And behave yourselves,” Jehan said.

Maximillien nodded. “We will, Papa.” He looked to Marcellin. “Shall we?”

Marcellin nodded more curtly. “Thank you, Citizen Prouvaire, Citizenness Prouvaire.”

“It was good to meet you,” Azelma said cheerily. “I hope you enjoy staying in Paris. My regards to your aunt, your uncle, and your cousins.”

‘ _And not to his parents?’_ Maximillien couldn’t help but wonder silently, more so when he saw his parents exchange knowing, almost worried looks. Yet before he could ask about it he caught sight of how Marcellin was looking down once again, clearly lost in thought. ‘ _Maybe memory,’_ he decided as he led his acquaintance out into the street.


	3. Chapter 3

Unlike many of his student brethren, Lucien Bayard did not spend his summers away from Paris. ‘ _I have more places to lodge here than I ever had in Bordeaux,’_ he thought as he put his feet up on a comfortable old settee. While he still rented his own rooms near the Estrapade, more often than not he ended up spending the most of the day or even the night at the homes of his friends whose families had firmly settled in this city. It was an unusual situation, but in Lucien’s eyes it was an ideal one especially when paired with the luxury of having little else to do but prepare to sit the licentiate exams.

Lucien looked up at the sound of footsteps fleeing down the staircase in the hall outside the room. “Run, run as fast as you can, Etienne,” he drawled. He chuckled at the sight of a red-headed boy darting into the room and attempting to make himself small behind a bookshelf. “What did you do this time?”

“It’s what I didn’t do!” Etienne Enjolras said in a dramatic stage whisper. He cringed as a distinctly feminine voice screeched his name. “Don’t tell her I’m here!”

Lucien looked around slyly. “Laure, where are you?” he called.

“Lucien, could you please get off my parents’ settee and help me look for my miscreant of a brother?” Laure Enjolras snapped as she stomped down the stairs and into the front hall. Her face was red with exasperation as she retied the red ribbon that was supposed to keep her golden curls behind her ears “You know where he is. I can see it.”

“Where is your evidence?” Lucien asked in a singsong voice, all the while making sure not to look to where Etienne was scrambling behind a large chair near the window. He was no stranger to these scenes; in fact he practically expected them each time he visited 9 Rue Guisarde. ‘ _Though of course Etienne is always among the first to come to his sister’s aid in other situations,’_ he noted quietly.

Laure swore under her breath as she went over and shoved Lucien’s legs off the settee to give herself some room to sit. “I hope you cleaned your room before coming here. Your concierge _hates_ it when you leave something disagreeable lying about.”

“I am making her life easier by coming here,” Lucien said. He laughed at the knowing look Laure gave him; as far as he was concerned she was just as pretty when she was angry as she was when laughing. “I do not ask her to cook, nor do I bring in anything dirty, and the house is quiet.”

“You’re lucky that my parents aren’t asking you to pay rent. They should.”

“They won’t since I’m one of your father’s best students.”

Laure raised an eyebrow. “I am the one who beats you all the time in debates---and I learned from him too.” She scowled as she crossed her arms and leaned closer to him. “I’m going to rearrange Etienne’s entire desk if I find him poking about my room again. He’s going to hate that,” she muttered.

“Is that all you can think of?” Lucien chortled.

Laure rolled her eyes and reached over to a stack of books left abandoned by the settee. “Read that. I’m done with it and I’ll quiz you---“ she trailed off just as she caught sight of a flash of motion near the window. “There you are!” she shouted as she sprang to her feet and pulled away the chair.

Etienne yelped as he jumped past his sister, only to end up rolling into the middle of the room. “Help me!” he shouted to Lucien.

“I do not do that sort of defence,” Lucien quipped gleefully even as he casually reached over to pull Laure back on the settee when she dashed past him.

“Traitor,” Etienne muttered as he got to his feet. He stuck out his tongue at Laure. “I can’t believe you actually want to marry this fellow.”

Laure’s cheeks turned pink. “Shut up, Tienne!”

Etienne cackled gleefully as he jumped onto an armchair. “Have you told Papa and Maman yet?”

“Told me about what, exactly?” another woman’s voice chimed in. All eyes turned to where Eponine Thenardier-Enjolras was standing in the front hall, carrying a heavy bag of books. Unlike her daughter, she wore her long reddish hair pinned up and away from her face. She clucked her tongue as she looked from Laure to Etienne. “What is this rumpus all about?”

“Tienne went into my room again,” Laure replied exasperatedly. “Can’t I please put a lock on my door already, Maman?”

“It would work if you didn’t lose keys all the time,” Etienne snickered.

“That is one thing, but it’s still not nice of you to make a mess of your sister’s things like that,” Eponine retorted. She crossed her arms as she looked at Lucien. “Why are you here so early?”

“It’s already after lunch, Citizenness,” Lucien said politely.

“You mean ‘Maman’,” Etienne muttered before Laure cuffed him. “He’s always here anyway!”

“Papa said he’d help me and him study for the exams,” Laure said reprovingly. “That takes a lot of time to do properly.”

Eponine rolled her eyes knowingly. “I s’pose we’ll have to see what happens once you two pass the bar.” She adjusted the strap of her book bag as she headed to the stairs. “You three had better be a little quieter so you don’t wake up Sabine. You know she’s not happy when she can’t have a proper nap.”

Laure nodded understandingly. “We’ll be good, Maman.” She waited for Eponine to head upstairs and for Etienne to follow suit before she nudged Lucien. “Maybe you should bring food or a good book the next time you come here, or maybe something for my baby sister.”

“Will music do?” he asked.

“No, because I have to be the one to play it,” she said, gesturing to the pianoforte in the corner. “Now where were we with studying?”

“Don’t you think of anything else?” Lucien asked as he dropped a book in her lap and then pulled her into his arms. He kissed her hard to muffle her surprised shriek. “Should I convince you otherwise?”

Laure pinched the inside of his thigh by way of retaliation. “I told Maman we’d be good.”

“You didn’t say at what, exactly,” Lucien pointed out.

Laure laughed before twisting around so that she could kiss him fully on the mouth. Lucien groaned at the feel of her fingers gliding up his chest and unbuttoning his coat. He brought up one of his hands to cradle the back of her head, tangling her golden curls between his fingers. The way she gasped against his lips was exquisite, but before he could tease her further he suddenly heard a knock on the front door. “Why now?” he whispered tersely.

Laure sat up reluctantly before combing her tousled hair with her fingers and then hurrying to the door. “Hello Max,” she greeted. “Julien isn’t home yet; he’s still enrolling at the Ecole Polytechnique.”

“I’m in no hurry, cousin,” Maximillien Prouvaire replied as he stepped in. He was accompanied by a raven haired boy whose pasty complexion made it clear that he had spent far too much time indoors. Maximillien nodded to this strange companion. “I’d like you to meet Marcellin de Guilbert. He’s in Uncle Antoine’s class this year. Marcellin, meet my cousin Laure Enjolras, and her classmate Lucien Bayard.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Lucien chimed in as he got to his feet. “Did you just recently arrive in Paris?”

“Only yesterday,” Marcellin replied, shaking Lucien’s hand awkwardly before making a stiff bow to Laure. His eyes went wide as he followed them back into the front room. “I thought that this house would be bigger.”

“It’s the Latin Quartier, and no place for manors,” Laure said bemusedly. “Where are you from?”

Marcellin drew himself up. “Orleans. My father owns holdings there.”

Maximillien touched Marcellin’s shoulder. “Laure and Lucien also are studying law. They might be able to help you.”

‘ _If we have time to,’_ Lucien thought, casting an eye to the still neglected pile of readings by the settee. “It might be best to wait till Professor Enjolras gets here.”

“Papa has a meeting with the Department of Justice. We don’t know when that’s going to end,” Laure informed him. She laughed at Marcellin’s aghast look. “Yes, I also took my father’s class. Every first year student in the law course has to, whether they want to be licentiates or full _juris doctors_.”

“Is he strict?” Marcellin asked.

“ _Exacting_ is more appropriate. He does not appreciate distractions either,” Lucien chimed in.

“Everyone still remembers the time that Papa put you and Laure out of class for fighting,” Etienne drawled as he bounded down the stairs and joined them in the sitting room. He poked Maximillien, who nudged him back. “Who did you drag in?”

“I’m Marcellin de Guilbert,” Marcellin replied. “Who are you?”

“Etienne Enjolras,” the younger boy replied candidly. Even though he was slouching he already stood taller than Marcellin by a couple of inches. “So are you keeping him?” he asked Maximillien.

“Tienne, be polite,” a voice scolded from the front door. Julien Enjolras walked into the sitting room, setting down a bag bulging with books and drawing implements. “Nice to see you here Max,” he greeted his cousin. He smiled at Marcellin. “Are you also studying at the Sorbonne?”

Marcellin nodded. “I’m taking up law. Who are you?”

“You can call me Julien,” the handsome blond replied. “Too bad that Max here is at the Conservatory, so you two won’t be seeing much of each other. My sister and Lucien though are two years ahead in the law course.”

“Where are you studying then?” Marcellin asked.

“Ecole Polytechnique. I’m starting there next week,” Julien said, patting the bag of books.

“Laure has the best head for words, Julien has it for numbers, Maximillien is the best with music, and I have it everywhere,” Etienne quipped gleefully.

“So where does he fit in?” Maximillien asked, looking to Lucien.

“Knowing where the food is,” Etienne said. “That’s why he’s always here.”

Lucien glared at Etienne. “I’m here to review for my exams. You can ask even your father about that.”

“You’d best get started with that before he gets back here,” Eponine chimed in as she entered the front room. This time she was carrying a baby, her youngest child Sabine. She smiled by way of greeting at her nephew. “How are you, Maximillien?”

“Excited to start school, Aunt Eponine. Maman and Papa are still working on the rehearsals for their play,” Maximillien replied. “By the way, this is Marcellin de Guilbert. He’s staying with the Stendhals.”

Eponine was quiet for a moment, as if she was trying to place something. “With the Stendhals---ah, I should have guessed,” she said at last. “You come from Orleans, don’t you, Marcellin?”

Marcellin nodded dumbly. “How did you know?”

“I used to work with your uncle and your aunt,” Eponine replied. She looked down at the baby beginning to squirm in her arms. “There, there, it’s much cooler down in this room than upstairs, Sabie. And we have guests,” she cooed.

Marcellin looked confusedly at Laure, Julien, and then Etienne. “How is that----“

“It happens,” Laure said, grabbing Lucien’s hand. “We’ll be studying, Maman,” she told Eponine.

“Leave the study door open. It’s still rather warm in there,” Eponine said to her. “Now will you boys---“

Before Lucien could hear the end of this question, he felt Laure already dragging him into the next room. “So what section will we start first?” he asked.

“Obligations and Contracts,” Laure replied distractedly, looking towards a shelf of law books. “We ought to leave the kids to themselves.”

“Your brother is eighteen, Maximillien too. I bet Marcellin is around the same age too,” Lucien pointed out. “Well maybe he’s scrawnier than he ought to be----maybe he needs to see your uncles first before classes begin?”

Laure dropped a book on the desk. “Don’t give them any ideas.”

“About what?”

“I think Maman knows Marcellin, or something about him.”

“Your parents know everyone. It’s only to be expected what with how long your father has been in politics and your mother a translator,” Lucien pointed out.

Laure looked back towards the front room, where the boys were laughing at something, probably at Marcellin’s expense. “Aunt Justine has a sister who has been living in Orleans for years. No one mentioned why,” she said in an undertone.  “I know that Marcellin has never been in Paris before, even if he has family here.”

“And we’ll find out in time?” Lucien asked.

Laure sighed. “This is the Latin Quartier, Lucien. There are no secrets here.”


	4. Chapter 4

****

Living in the Latin Quartier and raising a good many children had given Eponine an eye for all sorts of situations, but it was rare that she found herself faced with one as pitiful looking as Marcellin. ‘ _Did his parents just bundle him into a good coat and send him to Paris?’_ she couldn’t help but wonder as she turned her attention away from Laure and Lucien heading to the study, and back to the four boys  still gathered in the front room. “Now will you boys please do them some good and leave them alone,” she finally finished.  “The exams are coming up and you know how important those are.”

Etienne looked as if he was about to burst out with something cheeky, at least till Julien nudged him. Maximillien whistled knowingly. “The exams are at the end of this month?” he asked.

“Yes, and that doesn’t leave very much time to study properly,” Eponine replied more pointedly as she adjusted her grip on Sabine, who was cooing as she grabbed at her blanket. She saw Marcellin look down and wring his hands. “Do you have any brothers or sisters, Marcellin?”

Marcellin looked up quickly, as if startled by the very mention of his name. “None, Citizenness.”

‘ _Having only an heir would already be enough for Cerise,’_ Eponine could not help thinking. She could not imagine this haughty lady taking the effort to raise one child, let alone a second or third. “So what are you studying here in Paris?”

“Law,” Marcellin replied more stiffly. “My father wishes it.”

“I am sure you’ll enjoy it,” Eponine said. ‘ _That is if he isn’t too frightened by living in this quartier,’_ she couldn’t help thinking as she saw Marcellin train his gaze onto the floor again.

Etienne now jumped to his feet and dusted off his trousers. “I still haven’t bested you,” he said, pointing to Maximillien. “You get to join in,” he added, looking to Marcellin.

“By myself?” Marcellin asked querulously.

“I’ll team up with you. Maybe you can even teach us a game of your own,” Julien offered. “Maman, is it fine if we play in the back garden?” he asked Eponine.

 _“_ Boules again?” Eponine asked mirthfully as she cradled Sabine, who was now dozing off. “I s’pose you  _should_  play, only as long as you don’t knock another hole into the wall.” 

“That was Julien’s doing,” Etienne muttered before he was elbowed by both Julien and Maximillien. 

Eponine rolled her eyes knowingly. “I don’t want to hear you boys bickering about it, or I’ll never finish getting your dinner cooked. Now shoo!” Despite her admonition she could already hear the boys egging on each other as they raced into the back yard. ‘ _They won’t be that way forever; your brothers proved just as much,’_ she reminded herself as she watched Sabine sleep soundly for a few minutes before gently setting her down in a large basket that served as a cradle, and then carrying her to the kitchen.

As Eponine peeled some potatoes and set them to boil, she could overhear the raucous laughter of the boys at their game. ‘ _Perhaps Marcellin is merely getting used to such a place,’_ she thought when she peered out the window and caught sight of this newcomer quietly watching as Julien and Maximillien eagerly debated as to whose ball had landed closest to the target.  She wondered if it was merely a trick of the light that made the boy seem so wan and even limpid, but a longer examination told her that indeed, this was characteristic of his mien.

Just as she looked over to where Sabine was still asleep, she heard a familiar step in the front hall. “How was your meeting today, Antoine?” she greeted.

“Most productive. We finally resolved that precedent about the customs offices on the northern border,” Antoine Enjolras replied as he strode into the kitchen. He had already taken off his coat and was now walking about in his shirtsleeves; an old habit that never failed to bring a smile to Eponine’s face. He stopped to also check on Sabine in her makeshift cradle before pulling Eponine close to kiss her. “What about you?”

She held up her hands, which were for once clean of ink blots. “Not enough writing, a little too much arguing back at the presses.”

“About what?”

“Censoring translations. You know that I do not like taming down what the original work actually said, just because some booby thinks that the closest word in French is too vulgar.”

Enjolras smirked knowingly. “The children are here for once?”

“Laure, Julien, and Etienne are all home. Lucien is _still_ here---“ she trailed off, laughing at the dismayed look that crossed Enjolras’ face. “At least he hasn’t thought of bringing clothes over.”

“He is not getting further than that settee, and he already knows how inconvenient that is,” he pointed out. He glanced towards the back yard. “I see that Maximillien is here too?”

“He has a new friend with him, Marcellin de Guilbert,” Eponine said. “Cerise’s son.”

“The same one on my class roll this year,” Enjolras noted. “His father was a marquise who resigned his title some years ago.”

‘ _As per fashion,’_ Eponine couldn’t help thinking. “He’s staying with Justine and Emile. Odd isn’t it? I had imagined that his parents would arrange for him to have his own lodgings.”

“The Rue des Macons is more convenient due to its proximity to the Sorbonne,” Enjolras remarked. “I have a recommendation letter from a tutor—as nearly everyone in my class comes in with---but how do you mark him?”

“Harmless. Maybe too harmless,” Eponine replied frankly. “I don’t know much about the former marquise apart from that he had some connection with the diplomats, but I do remember Cerise.” She sighed as Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you haven’t forgotten how difficult she was when our paths last crossed. I had thought....” she trailed off before looking to where Marcellin was crossing his arms at having just missed a good throw. “He reminds me of how Justine was, long ago.”

“You mean reticent?” Enjolras asked curiously.

“Oh more than reticent; as if he is afraid of his own voice, his own shadow, or the fact he is taking up space. He is more worrisome than Justine because at least then, she found a friend in my sister. Marcellin does not seem to know how to manage it,” Eponine said. “It’s not....normal. I don’t know, maybe it’s his parents or his tutors or something, but I’ve never seen someone who did not know what to do with himself.”

“Perhaps a few days more in Paris will settle him. Classes do not start for a week,” Enjolras said. He looked out towards the window again. “Fortunately it would appear that Julien has befriended him.”

“Now that’s the one good thing there,” Eponine agreed, standing on tiptoe to watch Julien showing Marcellin how to improve his aim. ‘ _He’s always been the sweet one,’_ she thought. “I had hoped, once I heard that he was taking up law, that Laure and Lucien could do something for him but I s’pose that isn’t exactly possible since they are busy.”

“Law students, with the notable exceptions of Courfeyrac and perhaps Pontmercy, tend to be less than generous when the bar exams are approaching.”

“Oh? I remember you were quite forthcoming with _me_ just before you sat your exams?”

Enjolras’ cheeks colored at these words. “We were already living in the same tenement. I could not afford to have you as an enemy,” he deadpanned.

She laughed and kissed his cheek, just as she heard more footsteps in the study. “I am so sure that they’ve forgotten about studying by now,” she whispered.

He shook his head at this notion. “We’ll see about that when I quiz them later. Do you need any help here, Eponine?”

She smiled and shook her head. “You know I’m perfectly fine here.” All the same she could not help but smile as she watched him quit the room. It always meant a lot to her that he would ask.


	5. Part 5

****

_V_

As far as Julien Enjolras was concerned, it was impossible to remain silent during dinner at home, especially considering that there were always relatives and friends dropping in to visit. ‘ _Is he well then?’_ he wondered silently as he watched Marcellin take cautious spoonfuls of his food and chew every mouthful silently. Despite all attempts to engage him in conversation, this newcomer seemed to be unable to put more than one sentence together at a time. It was not surprising then when he’d excused himself shortly after the meal.

 “Where can I get a carriage?” Marcellin asked Enjolras.

“There are fiacres at the Marche Saint Germain, but you may find walking to be just as fast,” Enjolras advised. He nodded to Julien. “If you are not busy, perhaps you and Maximillien can accompany him back to the Rue des Macons.”

“Of course, Father,” Julien said, setting aside his sketchbook. “We won’t be long.”

“Take care.” Enjolras clasped his son’s shoulder. “He will need friends in the coming days. You might not see much of each other since you are enrolled in different schools, but I hope he will learn to count on you all the same.”

“Maybe so,” Julien said, allowing himself a small smile at his father’s confidence. While he was certainly not as outspoken as Laure or as cheeky as Etienne, or even as endearing as little Sabine, he never felt that his parents thought less of him for the fact. ‘ _In fact Maman says I am the most like Papa, in so many other quieter ways,’_ he thought as he followed Maximillen and Marcellin out of the house.

It was only when they were walking down the street that Marcellin looked back a little perplexedly. “Is it always like that?”

“Always like what?” Julien asked candidly.

Marcellin shrugged. “I thought people in Paris would eat a little less like peasants.”

“How is a peasant supposed to eat?” Maximillien chimed in as he fell into step with them. “How did you do things in Orleans?”

“We have servants,” Marcellin replied stiffly. “We always had more than vegetables and mashed up potatoes especially when we have company.”

Maximillien chuckled. “I think that it’s fine enough, and I’m constantly company there. You won’t find a better way of cooking potatoes than what we had.”

Julien grinned just from recalling the delicious meal. “It’s called _aligot_ in some parts of Provence.”

“What does your family have to do with _there_?” Marcellin asked.

“Papa grew up in Aix. We’ve been there a few times to visit our grandparents and most of our other relatives,” Julien explained.

“I am sure it is not a city as big as Orleans,” Marcellin sniffed. “Maman says it’s little more than a very big village with some grand buildings.”

Julien looked to Maximillien, who merely shook his head apologetically. “Most cities here in France look that way compared to Paris,” Maximillien said at last. “It’s stayed the capital for a reason.”

‘ _Despite all attempts to propose a capital closer to the Midi,’_ Julien thought, recalling a long distant political discussion in that vein. He bit his lip when he saw Marcellin look down, as if trying to retreat into his thoughts again. “I hope we didn’t startle you over dinner,” he added more convivially.

Marcellin looked pointedly at him. “I do not know how you can all carry on that way, especially considering that your father is a statesman.”

“Ah, you haven’t seen enough statesmen and their families then; they are just as lively too,” Maximillien commented. “At least here in Paris they are that way.”

“It isn’t proper, I heard,” Marcellin retorted. “My parents would be embarrassed.”

‘ _What then would they approve of?’_ Julien wondered silently. He could not imagine living everyday underneath such cold notice. ‘ _Maybe it’s best for him that he’s here,’_ he realized as they continued walking in the general direction of the Sorbonne. Although the sun was setting, the neighbourhood was still bustling with people chatting in the street, heading down to cafes and other evening entertainments, or simply just passing through. As noisy as it was, it was familiar and dear to him, and certainly part of the reason that his parents had chosen to settle in this city despite having every opportunity to live elsewhere.

Much to his surprise it was Marcellin who next broke the silence. “Your father sounds proud of you,” he said, looking at Julien. “I heard him.”

“Your father is proud of you too, I’m sure. You’ll be attending the best law school in France,” Julien said.

“That would be nice,” Marcellin said, putting his hands in his pockets and quickening his steps as they approached the Rue des Macons. Before he could walk up to the Stendhals’ home, he turned and smiled at Julien. “I liked hearing that.”

Julien nodded. “It was good of you to join us. Hopefully we’ll see you soon.”

“Give our regards to your uncle, your aunt, and your cousins,” Maximillien added as Marcellin went into the house. As soon as the door shut he turned to give Julien a perplexed look. “Maybe he’s homesick.”

Julien shook his head. “I never saw someone who seemed better off for being away!” 


	6. Chapter 6

****

_VI_

Of all people, Sophie Feuilly understood the importance of making calls upon returning to Paris. ‘ _There is always too much that happens here while we’re away,’_ she thought as she alighted from an omnibus passing near the Marche Saint Germain. After spending the past three months in Krakow and Prague owing to her father’s recent diplomatic assignment, the hustle and bustle of Paris in late summer would certainly take some getting used to once more. Nevertheless she smiled as she took a deep breath, catching the telltale whiff of roses and fruit in the air. It was good to be home.

She smoothed down her flounced skirt before walking down the Rue Guisarde and up to the house marked 9. Before she could knock on the gate she espied a golden haired boy seated up in the acacia tree, intently sketching in his pocketbook. “Julien! Over here!” she called to him.

Julien looked up abruptly and grinned before quickly shimmying down the tree. “Sophie, I didn’t know you were back in Paris!”

“We just arrived last night. Papa is calling at the consulate, Maman is meeting friends at the presses,” Sophie replied as Julien let her in the yard. She looked down at Julien’s boots and slowly upwards to meet his eyes. “You’ve grown a bit. Again. When will you stop?”

 “I don’t know. My uncle Jacques told me that he continued growing till he was nearly twenty,” Julien said as they found two large rocks near the fence to sit on. “I should tell my parents that your family is already back in this city.”

“I’m sure that at least my father has spoken to your father by now,” Sophie pointed out. “Next summer you should come with us again someplace, even if just for a few days. You would have enjoyed Prague.”

“That would depend how much time I get away from the Ecole Polytechnique,” Julien replied. “I’ve already enrolled there, and I start in a few days.”

The mention of the engineering school was like a thunderclap to Sophie’s ears. “Why that means you’ll be living there then! When will I ever see you?”

“I’m not moving to the dormitory,” Julien laughed. “There are so many students there who have homes in Paris, so the dean has decided that they can do away with the old arrangement.” He looked at her quizzically. “Is it such a bad thing?”

“No,” Sophie said quickly. “Where is Aunt Eponine?”

“At work, and of course she took Sabie with her,” Julien replied. “Papa is at the Palais de Justice, Laure accompanied him, and as for Etienne, he’s---“

“Right here!” Etienne announced as he sauntered out of the house and flopped down in the grass next to them. “We just sent Lucien home, and now we have company again.”

Julien cuffed his brother. “Tienne, be polite! She’s only here to call.”

“On you,” Etienne teased. He smiled at Sophie. “At least you won’t eat all the food here.”

“Julien has grown but you haven’t changed one bit,” Sophie quipped. The Enjolras brothers were a study in contrast; Julien was tall, blond, with a reserve and almost calming mien, while Etienne was fiery-haired, and quick with his temper and wit. “I’ll still be at school with you, so you’d better look sharp.”

Etienne gave her a look of dismay. “Shouldn’t you be going off to the Sorbonne or the Ecole Beaux Arts by now?”

“Next year,” Sophie replied. One disadvantage of accompanying her parents on their diplomatic missions was the difficulty with keeping up with prescribed schoolwork, thus leading to her being held back in the secondary school while her friends began their higher education. “I heard your cousin will be taking up music at the Sorbonne.”

Julien nodded. “Max is excited about it. Aimee and Sybil Stendhal also have a cousin studying at the Sorbonne this year, only he’s taking up law.”

“I didn’t know the Stendhal girls had a cousin. Why haven’t we met him before?” Sophie asked.

“Because he’s been stuck in Orleans till this week,” Etienne drawled. “Name is de Guilbert.”

It took Sophie a moment to place the name. “The son of the former marquise?”

“Why do you know him?” Julien asked.

“The name at least. His father used to work with my father in the diplomatic corps, at least till a few years ago,” Sophie explained as she sat up straighter.

“Why did he stop?” Etienne wondered. “Got his tongue tied up with some foreign language?”

“It didn’t suit him,” Sophie replied. ‘ _It’s better than saying that he didn’t find it profitable, or at least that is what people said,’_ she decided, remembering now her mother’s warnings against gossiping. “I’ve only seen the marquise once, and his wife a few more times during some dinners. I’ve never met their son.”

“You could beat their son in _boules_. Didn’t know a thing,” Etienne scoffed.

“Because no one taught Marcellin, and is it anyone’s fault, really?” Julien admonished him. “He has no siblings, for one thing,” he explained to Sophie.

“She doesn’t have brothers or sisters either, and she’s not terrible at all,” Etienne pointed out. “You should have seen him, Sophie. He wouldn’t talk much even to Papa and Maman, and if Max and Julien hadn’t been so nice he might have just walked out altogether.”

“Maybe he isn’t used to it,” Sophie offered. ‘ _But shouldn’t the children of most diplomats be more used to company?’_ she wondered silently. Perhaps this Marcellin had spent time in boarding school , or perhaps he’d been ill as a child and hidden away too often, or perhaps he was simply retiring in character. All the same, even she was sure that it wouldn’t account for any standoffishness. “He’ll warm up by and by.”

“I hope so,” Julien said, glaring at Etienne who was making no attempt to hide his laughter. “Are you making any more visits today?” he asked Sophie. “My brother and I can accompany you.”

“I have no set plans, and there is always the afternoon to make more calls,” Sophie replied primly. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for school?”

“I’m enrolled, all I need are more books and supplies.”

“Then I’ll go with you to get them. I haven’t seen much of the Quartier Latin yet.”

For a moment it seemed as if Julien’s cheeks had reddened, but he quickly looked away as he got to his feet. “Are you coming, Etienne?” he asked.

Etienne smirked as he tossed a dry blade of grass in the air. “I’ll laze about here. It’s better than ruining your fun.”

“You scamp,” Sophie muttered as she also stood up. “I’ll return him in one piece, I promise.”

“You’d better not leave anything dirty or horrible lying about. Maman and Sabie will be home soon,” Julien warned as he went to open the gate. “See you later, Tienne!”

Sophie laughed as she and Julien stepped out into the street. “He gets away with all kinds of things. He’s been the youngest child for so long.”

“He’s very protective of Sabine though,” Julien pointed out as they walked down to the Place Saint Sulpice, in the general direction of the Rue Ferou. A wry smile spread over his face. “Does it feel strange to be back in Paris?”

“No. Why should it be?”

“You’ve seen all kinds of places and met all sorts of interesting people.”

Sophie shrugged. “That depends what you mean by interesting.” As a diplomat’s daughter she was all too aware that she was expected to mingle with the families of her father’s colleagues, but many of these were not as _compelling_ as her childhood friends. She paused when she saw Julien seemingly stop in his tracks. “Julien? What’s there?”

“Marcellin de Guilbert in some sort of fix,” Julien said, motioning for her to follow him towards where a dark haired boy is frowning at a shop display. “Good morning, de Guilbert.  Are you lost?”

Marcellin quickly turned at the sound of Julien’s voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Walking in a friend’s company.” Julien nodded to Sophie. “Sophie, I’d like you to meet Citizen Marcellin de Guilbert. De Guilbert, meet Citizenness Sophie Feuilly.”

‘ _He definitely is the son of the marquise,’_ Sophie thought as she politely extended her hand. She remembered now that Marcellin’s father had a long face, a pallid complexion, and hazel eyes---features which were all present in this boy’s visage. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Marcellin looked her over, as if trying to place her name. “You’re the fanmaker’s daughter.”

“Yes, and a bookkeeper’s daughter as well,” Sophie said with a smile. It was not the first time that someone had used her parents’ former occupations as an insult or verbal tack. “I heard that you’ll be taking law, at the Sorbonne.”

“Naturally. I would not aspire to a lesser institution,” Marcellin replied.

“Are you getting things for your classes?” Julien asked more cordially.

“I need a milliner,” Marcellin grumbled. “Have you got a carriage?”

“No, and I have no room for one---at home or on this street,” Julien replied. “There’s a milliner by that shop a few paces away.”

“A _proper_ milliner,” Marcellin muttered. “Someone who knows what the latest fashion is.”

“Citizen de Guilbert, this is the Quartier Latin. You won’t get any better study of it than here,” Sophie said lightly.

“How would you know?” Marcellin asked acridly. “You’re just a Parisian girl.”

“Come now, what’s wrong with you? Why are you suddenly so uncivil?” Julien chided Marcellin.

“I had thought you’d pick better company, Citizen Enjolras,” Marcellin said to him officiously. “You are aware of her background.”

It was all that Sophie could do to keep from giving him a disgusted look. “Is that how you speak to a lady? I had thought your father’s son would be more courteous.”

Marcellin’s jaw dropped for a moment. “I was not addressing you, Citizenness.”

“If you address her that way, you won’t be addressing me either,” Julien said sternly, looking at Marcellin. “Have a good day, Citizen de Guilbert.”

‘ _Now what has gotten into him?’_ Sophie wondered. It was rare for Julien to be so cold in manner. “He does have a point as to who I am. Other people have said worse,” she said as they walked away.

“He was in a better temper last night,” Julien said. “Maybe I have been too harsh; he did seem out of sorts.”

Sophie shook her head. “It is no excuse. Well I am not surprised his father did not last long as a diplomat.”

“Sophie!”

“I have heard things, Julien. It explains a lot now that I’ve seen Marcellin.” The girl bit her lip, if only to keep the gossip from spilling. “I shan’t say it here, or I’d be just as uncouth as he is.”


	7. Chapter 7

****

Although the terror of sitting the bar exam was already a thing of his past, Armand Courfeyrac often still found excuses to return to the neighbourhood of the Sorbonne. “It is a second home to me,” he was heard to say to a colleague of his as they crossed the square fronting the university grounds. “Why should I give up the habit?”

“Home for you, stomping grounds for them,” the other barrister said sourly, gesturing to a group of young students, clearly having just arrived in Paris. “It’s the same story every year, at least till the first round of exams.”

“It doesn’t stop the best of them,” Armand pointed out as they reached the university steps, where they would have to part ways. “The best of fortune to your endeavour, Potier,” he added, clapping his friend on the back.

Potier nodded affably. “To you as well. Only you would be fool enough to pine so long after one of the most formidable women in Paris.”

“It will not be pining for much longer,” Armand said lightly before walking on ahead to the great buildings that housed the faculties of Law as well as of Arts and Letters. Of course he knew that Potier was referring to none other than Laure Enjolras, who was well known not just for her surname but also for her beauty and acidic wit. ‘ _I know her too well though,’_ Armand thought; he had grown up with her and her brothers and thus had come to regard them almost as siblings of his. As always the image of this particular childhood friend was replaced by that of another young lady, this one with dark hair and blue eyes. He smiled to himself as he walked up the stairs to a fourth floor corridor that housed the small offices of some of the law school’s longstanding faculty. He stopped at the third door in this hall and knocked thrice loudly before entering the room. “Good day Professor,” he greeted.

“To you as well, Armand,” Enjolras replied as he set aside the roster he’d been thumbing through. He handed over a freshly bound book of criminal law precedents that had been resting on one side of his old desk “I trust you will use it well.”

“Thank you. My client will be all the more grateful for this,” Armand said with a smile. Although regulations required him to keep an adequate enough collection of legal books and resources, and he had much assistance in this line thanks to his father’s own law practice, he still often found that the most updated volumes were more readily found in the academic circles. It was just as well that his godfather was generous enough with his own collection. “My father wants to purchase his own copy. He says it might be useful even if he doesn’t often handle criminal law cases,” he added.

Enjolras nodded as he gestured for Armand to take a seat. “I will arrange for it. Are any of his other associates also interested?”

“I will have to ask,” Armand said. “I heard the bar exams were postponed to the middle of October?”

“Yes, as per the request of the law schools in Toulouse and Brittany,” Enjolras replied. “It will put the Palais de Justice and some other law offices at a loss, until the list of successful new barristers is properly published.”

“Which will include Laure and Lucien,” Armand concurred. “I also heard that Lucien has practically taken up residence at your house. You and Aunt Eponine ought to charge him for rent.”

“He makes up for it in other ways,” Enjolras deadpanned. “I trust he will make more sensible arrangements once he has passed the exams.”

“Does he intend to practice here in Paris or in his hometown?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Armand nodded as he sat back in his seat, already imagining how this debacle was likely to play out. ‘ _Laure will have something to say to it, and it will surprise everyone,’_ he thought, making a mental note to ask his many friends about the state of the betting pool concerning the odds of Lucien proposing to Laure within this year. It was not long till his mind strayed back to that raven-haired girl who’d occupied his thoughts for much longer than he would care to admit. ‘ _I could talk to her, but will that all be there is to it?’_ he wondered.

“Are you troubled, Armand?” Enjolras’ voice cut through his reverie.

The younger man blinked at this query. “Not overly,” he said. To say ‘no’ outright would have been a lie, especially considering how near and dear this situation was, such that he had hardly spoken to it even to Laure and their other close friends. ‘ _Of all people to get into a state over it had to be Marie-Fantine Pontmercy,’_ he thought ruefully. The very name evoked not just a brilliant smile and a teasing, vivacious pout, but many a memory of childhood pranks, as well as of long talks about books and events. ‘ _The trouble with ascertaining these matters is keeping them secret from friends,’_ he thought.

Enjolras’ brow furrowed as he regarded Armand thoughtfully for a moment. “I would suggest you mention this to your father,” he said at length.

“It’s rather more complicated than that,” Armand said. ‘ _I would ask if only Marie-Fantine was not the daughter of Uncle Marius and Aunt Cosette,’_ he thought. He figured that the long association between his father and the Baron Pontmercy could lend an awkward edge to an already delicate matter. “How did you go about it?” he asked. “When you were courting Aunt Eponine, I meant?”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Because it’s still talked about,” Armand quipped. “The stuff of romances, so your students say, Uncle.”

“We were friends, and we reached a certain accord,” Enjolras replied. “That is all.”

Armand was silent for a moment before this extremely prosaic retelling of a story that was practically a legend in this quartier. ‘ _A lion and a rose as some of the poets say,’_ he thought even as he waited for his godfather to say something more forthcoming. “They say you didn’t write her love letters but you lent your books to her,” he tried once more.

“For practical purposes since we were doing legislative work then,” Enjolras explained more candidly. “Now that we have a collection in common the question of loans is moot.”

‘ _But not that of mutual enjoyment,’_ Armand realized. It was becoming clearer to him now as to how he could proceed in his own venture. “How did you know that your suit was well received?”

“As I said, we reached a particular accord,” the older lawyer said. “I find this curiosity of yours to be rather novel, Armand.”

“I’ve only been re-examining matters. After all I did grow up hearing of the tale, among others,” Armand replied glibly.

“That is true, yet nevertheless you must understand that the distance of years have given a certain color to some facts,” Enjolras said as he checked his watch. “Now I must prepare for my lecture, but you may drop by this office later, or at the Rue Guisarde.”

“I’ll come by with more news, Uncle,” Armand said as he tucked the book under his arm. As he made his way out of the building, he heard what sounded like muffled swearing mingled with the crack of rocks meeting the wall. When he peered round the corner he saw a young student furiously pelting pebbles against the masonry, heedless of the pile of books scattered at his feet. It was all he could do not to laugh at this stranger’s reddened face and pursed up lips that made him seem like some comically pinched caricature. Nevertheless he picked up a rock and tossed it near a pillar. “Have you knocked down anything yet?” he asked mildly by way of greeting.

The newcomer glared at him. “It’s me they want to knock down when they deserve much worse themselves,” he muttered as he tugged at his rumpled cravat.

‘ _Someone’s been crossed in a lecture,’_ Armand realized. He’d seen far too many classmates in similar tempers. “Which class bothers you?”

“Something called Fundamentals of Logic,” the younger man fumed. “Though what is it to you?”

“It is something if I can help. I got through that class years ago,” Armand replied. “What is your name?”

“Marcellin de Guilbert, though of course I don’t expect you to know that. Who are you?”

“A barrister, but simply Armand Courfeyrac will do.”  

The boy paused at this information. “Shouldn’t it be _de_ Courfeyrac? That is from Gascony.”

“I am simply Courfeyrac here in Paris,” Armand said. “I gather you’re in the first year? The classes here can be rough, especially Constitution.”

“I haven’t been to that lecture yet,” Marcellin said. “It’s the other students here who shouldn’t be about. They were being rude in class.”

“Rude in what sense?”

“Laughing at things they shouldn’t.”

“I hate to warn you but laughter is necessary in this profession---otherwise we’d have actual enemies instead of proper prosecution and defense counsels,” Armand said. It was clear to him that Marcellin had received a shock of some sort in whatever class he’d just exited, and the result had been at some social expense to him. “What is your next class?”

“Constitution.” Marcellin jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’m not going in if I’m going to be laughed at by those fools.”

“It’s not their ridicule you should be worried about,” Armand warned him gently. “The professor who handles that lecture is very exacting, and it’s not the sort of class one can afford to play the buffoon in.”

Marcellin shook his head stubbornly. “They’re the buffoons, not me. My mother will hear of this.”

“Come now, let’s not start that,” Armand chided. “You’re here in Paris. You’re not a schoolboy anymore.”

“I was never one of those day schoolboys. Your mother let you be one, I’m sure,” Marcellin retorted.

“She would have if I’d known her, but I do not see much wrong with that,” Armand said. He sighed when Marcellin shook his head again. “Have you got a friend in that class at least?”

Marcellin gave him a vehement look. “That is none of your business!” He crossed his arms and kicked the wall. “My father was a marquis. They and their fathers will be sorry.”

“A marquis where?”

“Orleans.”

“Well that is miles away,” Armand pointed out. ‘ _Though didn’t all the nobles of Orleans resign their titles years ago?’_ he wondered silently as he looked about for something to distract Marcellin out of his foul mood. “I am not jesting about that class. If I accompany you there, perhaps that will draw off the worst of the teasing?” he offered.

Marcellin snorted. “Then what of inside?”

“Once the recitation begins there will be less laughter, believe me,” Armand said. He could still remember all too well how his cheeky antics had once prompted Enjolras to send him out of a lecture. “Believe me. I survived that class too.”

Marcellin gave him a sceptical look. “You don’t even know your own place, Attorney _de_ Courfeyrac!” he retorted before gathering up his books and marching back into the building.

‘ _At least that has gotten him moving out of the miasma,’_ Armand thought as he watched Marcellin go. He smirked as he imagined the chaos that would certainly break out once the student got to class; this would certainly become a story to dine on the next time he visited the Rue Guisarde. ‘ _For now though, the Necker,’_ he decided, hoping to try his fortune with a face he knew would be at her duties at that hour. 


End file.
